Zulu Hart (7 page)
‘What?’ said
Harris.
‘And deprive me of a chance to recoup some of the bank’s losses?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir, though I’ll gladly put my winnings on the line tomorrow night.’ In truth George knew that his luck was bound to change, and he had no intention of risking his windfall. He needed the extra money badly, but that was hardly something he could admit to Harris.
‘Hmm, well, if you must go,’
came
the grudging response.
George rose unsteadily to his feet, kissed Mrs Bradbury’s hand and held her gaze a fraction longer than necessary. He was desperately hoping she would take the hint and follow him up. But she was too cool to give anything away, so he bade the others goodnight and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He undressed, poured a last glass of whisky from the decanter on the side table and got into bed.
As he lay there, flushed with alcohol and success, he did not feel like sleeping. He was suddenly anxious for female company, and found himself thinking of both the alluring, but very different, young women he had met that day. Were they thinking of him? Should he call for Lucy, who as a servant was bound to come, or wait to see if Mrs Bradbury paid him a visit? After a while, though, the alcohol got the better of him and he fell asleep undecided - or at least thought he had.
A soft click woke him. He could hear the door closing and the swish of skirts as a shadowy figure approached the bed. ‘Who’s there?’ he whispered.
An index finger pressed against his lips. ‘Who do you think, silly?’
The clipped tones were those of a
lady
, and that could only mean Mrs Bradbury. George could hear her undressing,
then
felt the soft warmth of a body climbing in beside him. ‘Darling,’ he murmured, ‘I thought you’d never come.’
She answered with a greedy kiss. George pulled her close; her body felt muscular, yet velvety smooth. She moaned as he caressed her breasts. Fortified by drink and lust, and inexperienced as he was, George dispensed with the niceties and manoeuvred himself on top of her. Giggling at his eagerness, she guided him in with her hand. But the frantic nature of his lovemaking soon caused her to chide him. ‘Slow down,’ she whispered, ‘you’re like a bull at a gate.’
He did as he was told, but not for long. Soon she, too, had abandoned herself to the frenetic pace, and his only concern now was the steadily increasing volume of her cries and the rhythmic tapping of the four-poster against the wall. He deadened one sound with his hand, the other with a pillow, but the telltale creak of the bed was still audible. It was a relief in more ways than one when he could hold himself back no longer, his pleasure intensified by a sharp pain as she bit into his hand. ‘Ouch!’ he yelped, before falling away to his side of the bed, and, despite his best intentions, collapsing in an exhausted heap.
As he drifted off to sleep, he felt a hand stroking his face. A voice was murmuring, ‘I’m sorry …’ or so he thought, but he could not drag
himself
back to consciousness to find out what had necessitated an apology.
George woke alone with a splitting headache, a dry mouth and a dull pain in his right hand. On both sides of the heel of his palm was a neat imprint of teeth, the skin not broken but badly bruised. He remembered and laughed. With winnings of £63, topped by an accommodating bedfellow, it had been a good night. He hummed a ditty as he shaved, confident that the evening to come would bring more of the same.
The other guests, bar Mrs Bradbury, were already seated when he reached the breakfast room. Their response to his cheery good morning was a stony silence. ‘Is something wrong?’ asked George.
‘I think you’d better ask Sir Jocelyn,’ said Lord Fitzmaurice, trying to avoid eye contact. ‘He’s waiting for you in the library.’
George’s heart was thumping as he approached the library. His lovemaking must have been overheard, he reasoned, but was that reason enough for such a frosty reception at breakfast? He suspected not, and opened the door with mounting appre
hension. Harris
was
at a
bureau,
his back to
the door. He
turned and beckoned George over. ‘Take a seat,
Hart. You’re going to need one. What
I
have
to
say is not pleasant, so
I
‘ll just get on with it. Two serious allegations have been made against you: first that you cheated at cards, and second that you entered Mrs Bradbury’s room uninvited and tried to force yourself on her. What have you got to say for yourself?’
George stared open-mouthed. This cannot be happening, he told himself. ‘I… I utterly refute both charges,’ he said at last. ‘Who made these claims?’
‘The first charge is not in dispute. I myself thought you were altering your bets, increasing them when you won and reducing them when you lost, and mentioned it at the time, if you recall. After you departed for bed, I was confirmed in my suspicions by both Lord Fitzmaurice and Captain Bell. As for the second charge, that was of course made by Mrs Bradbury. Do you dare deny it?’
‘Of course I deny it. I never went near Mrs Bradbury’s room last night …’ He was tempted to tell the truth; however ungentlemanly it might sound, it was better than being accused of attempted rape. But it quickly dawned on him that it was his word against Mrs Bradbury’s. He decided not to elucidate, but said instead: ‘As for cheating at cards, that’s ridiculous. I announced my bet before each hand.’
‘Yes, but what’s to stop you altering it to suit the outcome of the hand? Bell claims he saw you doing it.’
‘Well, he’s a liar.’
‘And he’s prepared to sign a sworn statement to that effect, as is Lord Fitzmaurice. Mrs Bradbury has already done so. So upset was she by your behaviour that she left in the early hours, but not before signing this.’ Harris handed him a piece of paper with five lines of writing on it.
‘But it’s in your hand,’ protested George.
‘So it is, but dictated and signed by her. And you’ll note that she mentions biting your hand as you tried to stifle her cries. I see you have just such a bite mark on your right hand.’
George read the note with mounting horror. Why, he asked himself, would she make such falsehoods? And then, creeping over him like damp fog
came
the horrible realization that he had been set up. By coming to his room and sleeping with him, Mrs Bradbury had made it impossible for him to deny he had assaulted her. It was clear to him now that all Harris’s affability over the previous few months had been a sham to lull him into letting down his guard. And it had worked. He had allowed himself to be lured on to Harris’s territory, among Harris’s friends. And together they had trapped him.
‘I know what you’re up to,’ said George with more equanimity than he felt. ‘And you won’t get away with it.’
‘Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Hart?’ said Harris, a glint of triumph in his eye. ‘Three separate witnesses are prepared to swear they saw you cheating at cards. That crime alone brings with it the punishment of professional disgrace and social death. But not content with one enormity, you commit another by trying to force yourself upon a defenceless widow. She too will stand by her claim. The question now is what’s to be done with you. My duty is to prevent the regiment from being dragged into this sordid affair, and to that end I’m prepared to offer you a deal. If you agree to resign your commission immediately, and of course return the money, we’ll say no more about last night. I have spoken to the others and we’re all in agreement.’
‘And if I refuse?’ said George.
‘Then I’ll have no option but to report your behaviour to both the Horse Guards and the local constabulary. Either way you’ll lose your commission. But if you accept my offer, at least you’ll retain your freedom
and
your honour, such as it is.’
George was shaking with fury. He was close to losing control,
and knew it.
‘You to talk of honour,’ he said loudly ‘Nothing could be more dishonourable than the underhand way you’ve treated me. I was a fool to believe you could change. I suppose 1 wanted to. Only now you show your true colours. I will resign, because you and your creatures have left me no option. But don’t for a minute think you’ve won. Some day, somehow, I will have my revenge.’
And with that he flung the money from his pocket and strode from the library.
Returning to his room to pack, he found Lucy making the bed. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said with a broad smile.
‘Is it?’ replied George, his temper barely abated. ‘I wouldn’t know. And don’t bother with that. I’m leaving as soon as I’ve packed.’
‘I’ll do that, sir,’ she said, fetching his leather suitcase from the wardrobe. ‘But why are you leaving? I thought you were staying until tomorrow.’
As George’s anger gave way to shock he found himself telling the pretty
maid
what had happened.
‘I was. But thanks to your employer and his lady friend Mrs Bradbury, I’ve been forced to resign from the regiment.’
Lucy looked shocked. ‘Resign? Why?’
‘Because he’s a vindictive man who could not bear having an officer of dubious social standing like me foisted upon his regiment. Unfortunately he has his wish, thanks to a combination of my gullibility and his scheming.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, pausing from her packing, ‘but none of this makes any sense. Why would Sir Jocelyn invite you here if he didn’t like you?’
‘To set me up for a fall - and he seems to have succeeded.’
‘And you say Mrs Bradbury was involved?’
‘How exactly?’
George blushed. ‘I don’t want to go into details, but she was certainly
party
to the scheme.’
‘I’m shocked, I truly am. She seemed the perfect
lady
to me, but I won’t deny Sir Jocelyn has a curious hold over her. She adores him and would do anything for him.’
George raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite. But it’s as well you know the real Sir Jocelyn. He’s a dangerous man who will stop at nothing to get his own way.’
‘I already know that,’ said Lucy quietly. ‘When you asked me about him yesterday, I didn’t feel I knew you well enough to speak my mind. But the truth is
,
I’m afraid of him. He has often tried to kiss me - without succeeding. And each time I reject him he becomes angrier still, telling me I should be flattered by his attention. He swears he will have me sooner or later, which is why I’m so desperate to leave his service.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘It’s not as easy as that. Anyway, where would I go?’
‘Does it matter? Surely anywhere would be better than here?’
Before Lucy could answer, the door was opened by Andrews, the butler. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘the carriage is ready to take you to the station.’
‘Thank you. Take my suitcase. I’ll be down presently.’
Once Andrews had left the room, George turned back to Lucy. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go. I wish I could offer you a post myself, but without money or a career I’m in no position to do so. But I’ll think of a way to get you out of here and will write in a day or two when my plans are a little clearer. Will you be all right until then?’
‘Of course.
Sir Jocelyn leaves me alone when Mrs Bradbury is in the house, and she’s staying until next weekend.’
‘Goodbye, then,’ he said, pecking Lucy on the cheek.
She reddened and lowered her eyes. ‘Goodbye.’
George’s instinct was to head straight for Dublin and tell his mother everything. But he knew how important she now regarded his military career to be, and how shocked she would be by the news, for financial reasons as much as anything, and so he chose to travel first to Brecon, where his best friend, Jake Morgan, was stationed with his new regiment, the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Foot.
At Sandhurst, George had ribbed Jake mercilessly for preferring the infantry - ‘the footsloggers’ - to the more mobile and glamorous cavalry, and had tried on a number of occasions to make him change his mind and join the KDG. Jake, however, had been adamant. His father had fought with the 24th Foot at Chillianwala in 1849, when the regiment had lost thirteen officers and more than half its strength in a matter of minutes, and he was determined to follow in his footsteps. Literally, thought George at the time, given that Jake was a poor rider and much happier on his own two feet than four hooves.
As his train chugged slowly towards Brecon through the rugged splendour of the Black Mountains, George’s mind wandered back to their first meeting on the opening day of the new term at Sandhurst. Jake had been given punishment drill for taking issue with an instructor’s mockery of his Welsh accent, and was doubling round the parade ground in full kit, a slight figure almost dwarfed by his pack. The sun was beating down remorselessly and after an hour the instructor took pity on him and said he could stop if he apologized. Jake refused and the ordeal continued until nightfall. When it was over, and George was helping this tough young Welshman to a cup of water, he asked him why he had been so obstinate. ‘Because,’ said Jake, coughing, ‘if I hadn’t made a stand now, the jokes would have continued.’
The words had struck a chord with George, and since that day the pair had been inseparable. They could hardly have been more different: George a tall, dark Irishman of unknown paternity and fresh-faced good looks; Jake an unassuming Welshman, the son of a wealthy colliery owner, small and lean, with red hair, freckles and a crooked smile. But opposites attract and the two had developed a bond of friendship that, they had promised each other, time and distance would never break. George had always trusted Jake’s advice. Now he needed it more than ever.